


So Good To Me (Tell Me What I Can Do For You)

by luninosity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Comfort, Domesticity, Fluff, Love, M/M, Meet the Family, Minor Crises, Perfect Proposals, Support
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 22:20:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a Five-Sentence Fic Challenge, for the request of <i>something fluffy and adorable and happy</i>; slightly revised here so it’s no longer quite five sentences. Unexpected family emergencies, Michael being there for James, unplanned proposals, imperfectly perfect moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Good To Me (Tell Me What I Can Do For You)

**Author's Note:**

> Title courtesy of The Monkees’ “You’re So Good To Me”, this time.

“Oh,” James says, into the phone, because he can’t think of anything else to say, “oh, all right, yes, thank you, I’ll—I can take a day off, from filming, I’ll be there as soon as I—thank you,” and hangs up, and then stares at the screen, hand shaking, only slightly but enough to be noticeable.

Michael comes bouncing around the corner of the silent trailer, chilly wind in his hair and complicated eyes all lit up, doubtless with some new scheme to steal Matthew’s megaphone or a brilliant idea about Erik’s multilayered motivations. James tries to smile, because seeing Michael always makes him want to smile, but even though he’s a good actor he’s never been good enough to fool those merry-winter eyes, not once in all the years since they’ve met and met again and fallen back together like they were always meant to be; not like he wants to fool Michael anyway, no deception, no secrets, and Michael stops walking and then starts running, sprinting the last few feet to his side, and flings both arms around him, and demands, “What’s wrong?”, all fierce protectiveness like a sanctuary in the bloodless air.

“Gran,” James says, helplessly, and looks at his mobile again, “she’s—someone just called, from the hospital, she broke her hip, gardening, there was ice and—it’s not that bad, really, they said, but she’s not that young and—she’s in surgery, and I…” and Michael holds him a little more tightly, hearing the words he doesn’t say, all the memories leaping up: a home, for the first time he could remember, someone who’d be there, who’d care when he got good marks in school or teased his sister about her hair or thought about joining the navy or brought home a man with springtime-colored eyes and an Irish lilt who made him smile _(“Gran, this is Michael, be nice to him, please?” “Maybe.” “I was told you like good whisky…” “Are you trying to bribe me into letting you date my grandson, then?” “No. I’m going to date your grandson anyway. Because I’m in love with him. And he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. But I figured the whisky couldn’t hurt.” “Twenty-one year?” “Thirty.” “If you can also make a decent cup of coffee, you can stay.”)_ and who’d therefore been welcome at the dinner table, because he _could_ make James smile, because that was what she’d wanted, for her grandson to be loved.

Michael takes the phone gently out of his hands, looks at it, draws James closer and kisses his temple, a press of lips against skin, undemanding and sweet, and James nearly starts to cry; Michael promises, softly, “We’ll both ask for a few days off, we’re not that far from home, I’ll make some phone calls while you start packing, and Matthew _won’t_ say no, because otherwise I’ll tell Kevin who was responsible for using his helmet as a tequila fountain during the holiday party, all right?” and James nods, against that strong shoulder.

When he opens his mouth again, Michael says “Don’t even think about it, I’m coming with you, not a discussion,” and James says, instead, “I love you,” so Michael only smiles, briefly, anxiously, and brushes stray curls of hair, blown by the wind, out of James’s eyes. Asks, gaze intent, “Are you all right?” and after a second James nods again, because he isn’t, but he will be with Michael there, and inquires, to distract himself, “You looked so happy, just now, before this, what were you thinking about,” and Michael bites his lip, and then says, “I was thinking—no, wait, I shouldn’t—you shouldn’t have to think about—this isn’t the right time, not now, not here, I’m not going to ask you to marry me right _now_ , for god’s sake—oh _fuck_ ,” and James says “ _What?_ ” loudly enough that other heads swivel in their direction.

“Um,” Michael says, eloquently, and the wind purrs around them like a curious kitten and James says “What?” again, because he _can’t’ve_ heard that right, except he knows he has.

And Michael says, plaintively, “I’m so sorry, this wasn’t how—I never meant it to come out like—I thought there’d be candles and champagne and music or something, I don’t know, I only just bought the rings yesterday, I hadn’t even planned—I thought maybe I could sing to you—but now you’re going to say no, aren’t you, of course you are, you should, you don’t need this right now, you don’t need me asking—I’m so sorry, you deserve better, I love you, please say we can pretend I didn’t—” and then stops talking because James has put a finger over his mouth. Michael stares, wide-eyed, and James says, “I don’t want us to pretend you didn’t,” and, “I do need you, right now, always, I love you,” and “Yes!”

Michael does ask again, even though James tries to say that’s not necessary, that Michael’s perfect anyway, that that moment, unplanned and unguarded and heartstoppingly sincere, was all he’s ever wanted. Michael nods, and kisses him, and doesn’t argue, and James knows those grey-green eyes aren’t convinced.

They’ve got a week off, somehow, magically, Matthew rearranging the shooting schedule so they can go home (it’s not really home exactly, not these days when he and Michael live in their messily shared London flat, but Glasgow will always be home nonetheless) so they can visit the hospital every single damn day and also stop by and water all the plants in the garden, because she asks them to. It’s not really a request, more of a command (“They’re not going to water themselves, James! I expect my rosemary and basil to be alive when I get home!”) and James laughs and, later, cries, overwhelmed and relieved and holding the stupid old-fashioned watering can in the so-familiar yard, and has to sit down, and Michael comes and finds him and puts both arms around him.

They have until Wednesday, and she’s out of the hospital and home, at least, and Joy cancels two tour dates and arrives on Monday evening, and the house fills up, gradually, with flowers and cards and family and love.

His grandmother takes one looks at his face and guesses that something’s different, and James grins and admits, “Michael asked me to marry him,” and she says pointedly “You said _yes_ , I hope,” in the same tone she once used to lecture him about politeness and elbows on the table, but she’s smiling, too, he can tell. And then she demands to walk him down the aisle (“This might be my only chance, your sister’s in no hurry!”) and James has absolutely no doubt that, by the time of the actual wedding, she’ll get her way.

When Michael asks the second time, it’s Tuesday evening. They’re staying in a hotel for the week, not enough room in the house since both childhood bedrooms’ve been turned into craft-project spaces and homes for unfinished bookshelves and god knows what else, and the hotel suite’s been a refuge, at night, embracing them in comforting dark. Michael goes back early, ostensibly to pack for their flight; James stays to make sure that the dishes get done and physical therapy appointments have been made and Joy hasn’t forgotten her house keys _again_ , and then drags himself out the door, feeling exhausted down to his bones, knowing that everything’s all right and still hating to leave.

He texts Michael to say he’s heading back to the hotel for dinner and a packing marathon—gets an instant response of _Do you want me to come meet you on the way?_ followed by _I love you_ followed by _Are you sure you don’t want me to come meet you?_ —and he finds himself smiling, wearily, at the screen. It smiles back, electronically sympathetic.

_No, it’s fine. Be there in ten minutes. Love you, too._

_:-/_

_< 3_

_You, too._

James smiles again, and touches the weight of the ring on his finger—pale gold and never chilly, only warm and a perfect fit, the same way Michael’s hands’ve always fit around his—and walks a little faster, through the fading light.

When he opens the door, the hotel suite is filled with candles, softly glowing.

Michael steps into view, and takes his hands, and James thinks for a second that Michael’s going to ask the question again, right then, and he doesn’t know what to do. He’ll say yes again, he’ll always say yes, that’s not even a question, but he’s so tired and he hasn’t packed and he’s thinking about leaving his grandparents alone again in the morning, and Michael’s looking at him with such kindness, Irish-heather eyes all affectionate and romantic, and he can’t manage romantic at that second, he just can’t.

Michael doesn’t ask. Only draws James into his arms, heartbeats like magnets tugging them together, and holds him, and tangles a hand in his hair, and waits while James leans into his shoulder and breathes.

And dinner is spectacular. Not anything elaborate, not experimental and complicated cuisine. Only every one of James’s favorite foods, quiet affirmations that culminate in chocolate fudge layer cake with spiced-rum icing, rich and decadent as it dissolves over his tongue.

He licks his lips and looks at Michael, through the candlelight, and suddenly he’s not exhausted anymore, or maybe he still is, and the exhaustion doesn’t matter in the least.

Michael smiles back. On the table, abandoned plates and glasses hum with the change, the shift in the air, the leisurely swirl of anticipation.

Michael stands up. Walks around the table. Takes his hands, both of them; touches the ring, and smiles again, and then starts to sing, very quietly, all of the classic sappy love songs, the ones that get played incessantly on oldies radio stations that James adores and at which Michael always snickers, the Monkees and the Four Seasons and the Beach Boys.

He stops, seeing James start to cry, and brushes tears away from wet eyelashes, which makes James kind of want to cry harder and also kiss Michael and never let go, and says, “I love you, I always will, I did promise I’d sing to you, and I’ll sing to you forever if you want that, I’ll be here forever if you want me, for everything, and also I started packing your clothes, I thought you might be tired, so if you were wondering why you only have one sweater in the closet that’s why, I was trying to help, I’ll always help if you’ll let me, and please say yes—again—I know you already did but I can't quite believe it yet, so please,” and James leans into his hand, kisses those fingertips, answers, “Yes always.”


End file.
